


Templars Without an Order

by Auriana Valoria (AuriV1)



Series: Herald of Change [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Good Templars (Dragon Age), Mage-Templar War (Dragon Age), Templars (Dragon Age), Trevelyan (Dragon Age) has Sibling(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24274162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuriV1/pseuds/Auriana%20Valoria
Summary: Knight-Lieutenant Donovan Trevelyan and a handful of his fellow Templars find themselves on the run after the Mage-Templar War breaks out. Orderless, they wander, fleeing from rogue apostates and unknowing of when - or if - this chaos will ever end.
Series: Herald of Change [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636348
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Templars Without an Order

_Somewhere in the Free Marches; 9:40 Dragon_

“We’re going to have to fight the bastards head on, Lieutenant!”

“We don’t have enough manpower! Keep running!”

Donovan felt the sizzling heat of the fireball that exploded dangerously close as he helped the Templar beside him half-carry, half-drag a wounded comrade between them. Sweat trickled down his scalp and burned in his eyes. They were running as fast as they could in their armor and with a limp burden on their shoulders. Plowing headlong through thick woods, they nearly tripped over exposed, gnarled roots and slid precariously over smooth, moss-covered stones, their vision dangerously inhibited by their helmets. Yet there was no time to stop and remove them, not with hostile apostates on their heels…

“Just… leave me behind… it’s easier…” their injured fellow gasped, the sound hollow in his helm.

“No,” Donovan declared firmly, his voice ringing against metal. “We’re not leaving anyone to die.”

A shrill shriek then pierced the air as one of the rebel mages following them was downed by a whistling arrow – Corporal Jehanna’s doing, no doubt. The marksmen in their company were attempting to increase the distance between the fleeing warriors and the pursuing mages by picking off the rebels’ numbers one by one from whatever cover presented itself as they moved quickly through the forest.

“Someone just smite the sons of bitches and get it over with!” another Templar cried in frustration.

“No! Don’t!” Donovan shouted in reply. “We have to conserve our lyrium!”

A sharp yelp, and another mage was slain. It was answered by a second uncomfortably-close fireball, however, and there was a loud rattle as one of the Templars threw himself to the earth to avoid being hit. It was then that a bloodcurdling war cry made the hairs stand up on the backs of all their necks. Donovan and his two comrades twisted around to see a flashing blur of silver charge behind them, blade uplifted in a shimmering sliver of steel.

“Oh, _Maker_ , there goes Dieter…”

“Cover him!” Donovan heard Jehanna’s voice call out to her fellow archer.

A blended cacophony of screaming arrows, a screaming blade, and screaming men reached their ears from beyond the small ridge behind which Dieter had disappeared. Donovan turned back and kept pushing onwards, knowing that Dieter was buying them time and refusing to squander it despite his concern for the raging warrior’s life.

It wasn’t long before, over the din of rattling armor and their labored breathing, there was a distant call of “Retreat!”

No doubt Dieter’s greatsword and nigh-mad fury, along with Jehanna and Emil’s swift and sure arrows, frightened the surviving mages off. Finally, the sound of fighting ceased, replaced with the clatter of metal and heavy footsteps crashing through the dry brush as the remainder of their small company coalesced into a mass of shimmering silverite once more. As soon as they were certain the mages would not pursue any longer, they stopped, and Donovan and his comrade lowered the wounded Templar between them to the earth to examine his injuries more closely.

“Damn, Harwin,” Donovan breathed as he pulled the torn breastplate from the injured Templar’s torso. There were wicked, bloody lacerations all across the young man’s abdomen in thin, long trails, like raw, spidery veins.

“Ribs are cracked,” Harwin hissed, his face covered in a shining sheen of sweat. “I can tell. Damn demon got the jump on me…”

“Broken leg, too,” their companion added grimly. “We’ll have to set that.”

“Here, Knight-Lieutenant.” Emil approached, proffering a small healing potion from his belt. “This should take care of most of it. After the setting, of course.”

“Right.” Donovan pushed Harwin flat. “Put your glove in your mouth, Corporal.”

“ _Maker_.” The Templar’s voice was shaky, but he did as instructed, sinking his teeth into the thick leather and tasting sweat and blood… both his own.

There was a nauseating _crack_ of bone, and Harwin reeled, emitting a loud and long groan of agony as he bit down on the treated leather of his gauntlet. Before he could react any further, however, Donovan thrust the now-open potion bottle at him and forced him to down it then and there, practically pouring the concoction down the man’s throat himself.

“Knight-Lieutenant.”

With Harwin stabilized for the time being, Donovan stood and turned to face Corporal Jehanna. She had her helm tucked under her arm, revealing a severe, deeply scarred countenance and a disheveled bun of wispy, mouse-brown hair, greying at her temples. Only one bright, jade-green eye met his; the other was covered by a leather patch, put out in her younger years by a fearsome Revenant’s blade.

“Ser, the mages have been driven back enough they should not be able to follow us, now,” she reported, inclining her head to him. “We picked off more than half their number.”

“Good,” Donovan replied with an approving nod. “Let us hope that we don’t encounter more of these rebels before the next town.”

“Speaking of which,” Emil interjected, looking all around him, “where in the Void are we?”

Donovan’s brow furrowed, and he glanced to the one who yet tended Harwin. “Sven, where are we?”

There was a shrug of silver shoulders. “Don’t look at me, I don’t have a map.”

“Great,” the mountain of a Templar named Dieter sighed heavily. “We’re lost.”

“Right.” Donovan removed his helm, running a hand through his sweaty black hair and closing his eyes as he thought. “We were on the road to Starkhaven, then were run off it with those apostates showed up… so we ended up going…” he trailed, glancing around to get his bearings.

“Southwest,” Jehanna supplied. “We were run southwest.”

“So if we turn straight north,” he continued with a slow nod of agreement. “We should run into the road again.”

“ _Should_ ,” Emil emphasized.

“Harwin is in no shape to travel despite the potion.” Sven stood, taking off his own helmet to reveal a round, almost cherubic face and dark brown eyes wide with concern. “We need to set up camp and quickly,” he glanced upwards at the pink and orange sky, “before night settles in.”

“You’re right.” Donovan looked between them, and then dispatched his orders: “Everyone, start gathering wood and clear a place for a fire. Drag some logs together for seats and make some beds of leaves. Let’s move!”

“ _Ser!_ ”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Three hours later, the small party of Templars was gathered around a crackling blaze of impressive strength, feeding their hungry bellies with the meat of a buck Emil managed to bring down while the others were gathering wood for the fire. They were a right sight, half in and half out of sparkling silver armor, stained with blood and mud, ornamental skirts soiled, torn, and tattered, licking greasy fingers as they voraciously devoured their meal with bare hands. Despite the chill of winter, the fire was enough to banish most of the cold, and the venison warmed them from within.

Such was the condition of the loyalist Templars of Markham, the ones who refused their Knight-Commander’s orders to join Lambert’s rebellion against the Chantry and who had left the tower and the town they protected for good. Donovan was the highest-ranked of them all, and so possessed a modicum of authority over them. He felt responsible for each of them, especially since they had followed his lead in abandoning the Circle they served… a couple of them having dwelled at the tower for decades.

Having already satisfied his own growling stomach, Donovan slowly scanned the harshly-lit circle of faces around him as they focused on eating, letting his eyes fall from first one warrior, then to the next.

Jehanna was the oldest of them, well into her forties. As such, she was a pseudo-mother figure to several in their company; where Donovan held actual rank over the others, Jehanna possessed a nearly equal authority through her age and serious demeanor alone. However, despite her advancing years and lack of an eye, she was a deadly shot with a bow and almost as quick with a knife. Her only faults were her short temper and lack of patience.

Donovan, Dieter, and Harwin were all the next in age, Dieter the oldest of the three. The huge Templar was nearly a head taller than Donovan, who himself exceeded six feet in height by an inch or two. Everyone speculated that Dieter had Avvar blood in his veins, but no one had yet dared ask the surly man about it. He wore a scraggly, dark brown beard and a mess of curly hair that was always matted to his scalp from the weight of his helm. A greatsword was his weapon of choice, but he could handle any two-handed weapon with a sort of ease that left most who beheld him in awe. Harwin, on the other hand, was a slightly-built man, shorter than Donovan and slimmer, too, with large grey eyes and platinum-blonde hair, stark in contrast to his tawny skin. Harwin was half elven, which he made no secret about and was, to the surprise of most who met him, not ashamed of. Donovan remembered Harwin telling him that he had been abandoned by his mother on the doorsteps of the Chantry, and that the Templars had taken him as their own when they discovered his talent with a blade. Like Donovan, he favored a sword and shield fighting style; unfortunately, his lack of a shield was what put him in his currently injured state.

Sven and Emil were the youngest, in their late twenties, having just been promoted to the rank of Corporal before Lambert’s edict was issued. Both Sven and Emil were red-headed, though Sven’s hair was more of a copper tone and Emil’s was the color of blood. That was where their physical similarities ended. The round-faced Sven was a tad stout and favored an axe in close combat; Emil, on the other hand, was almost the complete opposite: slim like Harwin and an archer like Jehanna. In fact, it was Donovan’s understanding that Emil had been trained by Jehanna herself, and he was almost as good as her already, despite being half her age and experience.

Almost.

As Donovan glanced to each of his silent comrades, he wondered how many of them would make it to Starkhaven alive… if even _he_ would make it there in once piece. It would be at least five more days until they reached the city’s gates, and that was _if_ they did not run into any more difficulties along the way. The wilderness was crawling with predators and apostates and abominations of all sorts, and they had already been confronted twice on the first day of travel. It was not a good sign.

On top of that, their lyrium resources were dangerously low. Many of them only possessed what they had on their belts when they left the tower. They would have to use it sparingly and refrain from utilizing any of their signature techniques that could sap them of their strength. And with rebel mages roaming the woods freely, that was a tall order.

As he listened to the crackling of the fire, his mind wandered to his baby sister, Verana. He knew that Ostwick’s Circle had collapsed before Markham’s, and he wondered if she was even still alive. Had, Maker forbid it, she been killed in the conflict? Or was she wandering the wilderness, same as he, searching for a safe haven? He had told himself that he would somehow _know_ if she was dead, but he didn’t. Part of him wanted to return to Ostwick to find out for sure, but another part of him knew it was no use. Word in Markham was that there were no mages left in the city of Ostwick, and he doubted if anyone there still breathing cared if she was alive or dead. Not even their father or the Teyrn.

He hated it. All of it. He hated the Circles and the Templars and the Seekers for causing this idiotic war. And he hated himself, too… for promising that he would be there for his little sister when she needed him most and then being unable to fulfill that promise. It was a lie. All a lie. To comfort himself or her more, he did not know.

Now, he had only the faintest of ideas where _he_ was, let alone where she might be. And he could do absolutely nothing about any of it.

 _Maker damn it all_.


End file.
